


you draw blood just to taste it.

by itsonlyblood



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-15 19:32:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19302349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsonlyblood/pseuds/itsonlyblood
Summary: She knew the killer heard that explosion, and her plan for getting everyone out of this trial involved using this as an opportunity for twink-bait.





	you draw blood just to taste it.

**Author's Note:**

> quentin looks like the movie ver of quentin :-) why did they make him look like tht in dbd. - auhtor pink hair
> 
> Quenitng is our little twink bitcbh. Not the fucking METH HEAD in the video game. -author smolbeanstyle (follow me on instagram)

“Yo, Quen? You good?”

No answer. Quentin stares into the entropy of the flames. It lights up his face and gives the interrogator a little bit too much insight on how he feels. He twists around to blankly watch the woods, wishing he was braver.

“Hey bud. Talk to me. It’s not like you’re gonna find a therapist out here.” Her voice is soft and inviting, and she makes her way over to the empty space next to him. They share a seat and a glance, and she gives him a side hug.

“I am a coward. Nea,” Quentin pauses, choking on his words. “I am… a fucking coward,” He bites out, voice breaking. He breathes sharply and rubs his arms, fingernails digging into them. His face contours in the shadows. He looks desperate. 

Gentle hands pull his own away from the vice grip on his arms; Nea holds them in her lap. She speaks now, motherly, “Hey. Look at me. You can’t beat yourself up for this. You’re new here, we’ve all had to leave people behind. It’s hard, but it gets better. I promise you.” 

Quentin doesn’t have a response. He’s got the distraught look of a wet cat. She embraces him, and he cries into her shoulder. The warmth of the campfire penetrates him, and in his sobs he thanks Nea for the comfort she has brought him, as cheap as it is.  
Unfortunately, this moment of warmth and comfort is interrupted, broken by a stab of uncertainty and anxiety. A shift in the thicket yards away spooks the already distressed boy, and he begins to panic. “Nea? Nea what the fuck is that? Nea!” Quentin hisses. His breathing is cut short. His eyes are wide and unfocused. He tries to make out the figure standing in the distance, but the fog only exposes a glimpse of what exists there.

“There’s nothing there, Quen. You just need some rest. Lie down for a little bit. It’s safe to sleep here, I promise you,” Nea doesn’t bother looking toward the figure. She knows the killers can stalk them from a distance, but she also knows that Quentin would be much more tranquil if he thought it was all in his head. She can’t hide it from him forever, but he really didn’t need this shit right now. 

He obliges, but sleep does not embrace him as tosses and turns. Instead, a thick fog wraps around him, leaving the boy breathless. He opens his eyes, terrified and gasping for air. The flame and Nea are gone, replaced by a cold gust of frozen air that penetrates the fog and exposes a snowy and unfamiliar landscape. 

Mount Ormond Resort resides on the isolated mountainside of Mt. Ormond in Ormond, Alberta. Abandoned, one would have to be careful walking around here. The chalet which lies as the centerpoint of the former resort is decrepit and feeble, a gust of wind away from becoming rubble. Spray paint tags from miscreant youths once made the walls a little more vibrant-- a sort of butterfly birth from the isolated cocoon from which profits could no longer be milked. Those days, too, were long gone: the paint had faded away, the wallpaper underneath chipped and peeling. The only legible tag written on the walls of the chalet read, surprisingly vividly, “The Legion,” a skull dotting the i. The moonlight pouring through a hole in the roof brightened the text, making it even more visible from its place on the second floor.

“Okay. Okay. This again— Okay. Find someone else. Work on the generators. Escape. Don’t fucking leave people behind again. I can do this. I just-- I need to find someone else,” Quentin tried composing himself, but fell short like his breaths. He couldn’t find the strength to move, knowing something out there was looking to kill him in the most brutal way imaginable. Frozen up in the snow, the boy found himself unable to move. Quentin could feel panic bubbling in his throat, tears pricking his eyes, but he snapped back into reality when he realized someone was talking to him.

“Hey! Hey! Quentin, right? Why don’t you come help me with this gen,” Meg spoke through the smoke of the engine and haze from the fog. She fiddled wires and broke his gaze with demand. “Come on, I’ve almost got it done,” she said. 

The generator whirs— a gas engine that connects to floodlights which loom 10 feet over the ground; it is the source of power for the electronic doors which allow the survivors to escape the wrath of the murderers and their realms. Quentin starts to grasp at the wires, resuscitating the memories of his time as a member of the robotics club in the ninth grade. His memory fails and, in his attempt to repair the generator, he causes a spark that expands into a miniature explosion. The echo of the blast reverberates throughout the resort. Quentin looks down at his burnt hands, snapped out of his daze by his companion.

“Quentin! The entire mountainside just heard us! I… I’m gonna go look for the other survivors. We can all meet back around here. If the killer heard that fuck up and comes here to check it out then just… meet us at the chalet, okay?” Meg tried to be sincere, but she was obviously annoyed at the destruction of her progress. She knew the killer heard that explosion, and her plan for getting everyone out of this trial involved using this as an opportunity for twink-bait.

Hot hands meet the snow-covered ground as Quentin desperately attempts to cool them off. He is so preoccupied with the searing pain in his hands that he doesn’t even notice Meg has gone, leaving him alone with the quiet hums and moans of the generator. Quentin’s hands emerge from the snow red and blistering, and he moves slowly and deliberately back to the generator. Despite the dull throbbing in his fingers, he was going to get this right— he had to. The boy wanted to prove to Meg that he was not only a valuable member of the team, but also someone who wouldn’t give up after a damaging mistake. Maybe it was just his last trial haunting him, or maybe he was just too enamored in this job he’d been given, but he was determined to get it done before the survivors met back with him. He was so determined, in fact, that he completely failed to detect the presence of the figure approaching his backside. It takes an abrupt snatch on Quentin’s jacket to snap him out of the hypnotizing methodology of fixing a generator. A sudden rush of adrenaline takes over his body, and he thrashes out of the mysterious figure’s grip. He books it toward what looks to be an old storage shack, his eyes dead set on an old pallet. The boy feels the breath of his chaser on his back, and knows that this is life or death. As soon as he clears it completely, he turns around and slams the pallet into his pursuer with all his might. 

He finally gets a good look at the killer. A red and white varsity jacket covers his wide, muscular torso. A white mask with an eerie smiling face brushed on with black paint covers his real countenance, no doubt frustrated at the wooden plank that had been slammed into him. He let out a deep growl. Quentin caught himself staring and realized that he needed to go; he began to run with no set destination, just the goal of getting away. The price of having no plan was running himself into a dead end, the masked man standing in front of only exit in the shack. Quentin’s crying now, and drops to his knees. He’s exhausted, fucked everything up, and now he’s trapped himself like a rat in a cage. His beady eyes meet the gaze of his approaching fate. He doesn’t even scream.

“God, you’re so fucking pathetic. Let’s just get this over with. Don’t fucking squirm pussy, ‘cause I will make you regret it,” the killer speaks in a raspy voice. He grabs Quentin and slings him over his shoulder. Quentin immediately tries to wiggle out of the murderer’s grasp. 

“What did I just fucking tell you? Are you deaf? Is the Entity picking on deaf people now? Shit, dude— fucking stop!” says the killer, getting upset. Quentin doesn’t give up. He also doesn’t escape. Just as the pair approach a meat-hook to leave the poor, helpless survivor stuck on, a loud buzzing sound echoes through the resort. “It sounds like they’re leaving without you,” the murderer laughs, “completely useless, did they just leave you here? Were you fucking bait? That’s priceless.” Quentin tries to pull himself off the hook, but swimming is a cardio sport. His efforts are in vain, and he is left to listen to the mocking from his tormentor. After what feels like an eternity, even in this hellhole, claws encroach on Quentin’s body, and he is dragged away from the killer and into the fog above.


End file.
